Memories Had, Memories Made, Memories lost
by Kathrinegrey
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is the best detective in the world. He has his cunning wit and uncanny memory. But what happens when he loses it? What happens when Sherlock Holmes becomes ordinary? JohnLock at the end, don't like don't read. PS: This story is anything but boring!


Memories Had, Memories Made, Memories Lost

By Rachel G.

"Public transit?!" Sherlock Holmes nearly shrieked at John Watson, his colleague and companion. "Do you have any idea how devastating that is for my reputation? No, scrap that! Just think about how many people have sat, sweated and even _defecated_ in the metro trains! It is disgusting, unsanitary, and _out_ of the question!" Sherlock put a finger up in John's face just to add effect to his point.

John's expression was still stone straight; Sherlock's outburst didn't faze him; Sherlock secretly loved it. They both loved to argue; they learned so much more about each other when they argued for five minutes than the equivalent of months coexisting together.

"Sherlock." John started firmly. "It's too expensive to take a cab. It would cost about £800 to get from here to Liverpool. It will cost us a tenth of that for us _both_ to take the train. And besides, we're not taking the tubes. We're taking a civilized, clean, and proper _train_."

Sherlock turned his childish objecting behavior back to his normal self. How he changed attitudes so quickly still baffled John. "First class?" Sherlock tested the waters.

"Nothing less." John confirmed with a hidden smile. "Food, nice view, attractive staff, the whole works."

The young doctor lost the detective's attention the moment he confirmed there was first class seating. Sherlock immediately busied himself with departure preparations.

John stood and watched as Sherlock rushed in and out of his bedroom, throwing clothes and seemingly random items into a travel case.

"You're… bringing the skull?" John sounded a little worried.

"Too much?" Sherlock held up the creepy mantle decoration carelessly.

"A bit."

"You're right." Sherlock tossed the skull behind his shoulder and it landed perfectly on his wingback chair.

John wondered why Sherlock was packing so much. _Oh well, at least he's willing to go._

"What does one _wear_ when meeting the headmistress of a children's home?" Holmes held up two identical looking shirts that were still on their hangers.

"They're the same thing, Sherlock." John rolled his eyes.

"On the contrary. This one has a loose string on the collar and a small tea stain on the breast pocket, and _this_ one is flawless. What look are we going for? Perfect know-it-all, or sloppy idiot?"

John had no idea how to respond to something like that so he just remained silent.

"You're right." Sherlock concluded. "I should take both."

With that, Sherlock closed his stuffed-to-the-brim travel case and attempted to lift it off the floor. "It appears…_grunt_… that the suitcase glued itself to the floor boards. It must not want to take the train." Sherlock was rarely this "solemnly goofy" but when he was, John wasn't in the mood for it.

With a long sigh, a few grunts and a heave ho, Sherlock and John managed to bring the heavy travel case down the building's old wooden stairs. The incorrigible companion was certain Sherlock somehow gave _him_ the heavier end.

"Sherlock." John gasped out between breaths. They sat the travel case down at the entrance of the building. "Care to tell me why you've packed enough to last you a year in Liverpool? Every other time we leave somewhere you take the clothes on your back and your phone! What makes this so different?"

Sherlock didn't answer, nor did he smile at John's blunder. He was too busy thinking. Sherlock didn't like the look of this new case at all. There was absolutely no police involvement, no news coverage. Even the street leaks, or who Sherlock called his "eyes and ears," heard no word of it. The only source they were running off of was a conspiracy theorist's online blog. The detective also found it suspicious that the headmistress of the children's home became very hostile and private the moment Sherlock called and inquired about the conspiracy rumours, and then stopped answering phone calls all together.

In the cab bound for the train station, Sherlock briefed John on a few "minor details."

"You'll need this, John." Sherlock handed John an ID card. John scrutinized Sherlock's handiwork. It was a perfect replica of an identification card, complete with John's photograph, but it displayed the name "Col. Harold Graft."

"What's this?" John knew exactly what it was, but he thought it unfair that Sherlock could just say "John, we're assuming new identities. Consider yourself undercover," In even less words.

"You know what it is, John. Or should I say, _Colonel_." The detective tried to hide his smirk.

John scoffed in disgust. "Yes, but _Harold_!? I will get you for this one, Sherlock. Next time, _I_ get to pick the names."

"Once we get to the station, get rid of all identifying papers you have. I've already relieved you of your ID at the flat, so the only thing you should have left to get rid of is your notebook, and a letter you received from your sister, that is still unopened in your bag."

John had no idea how Sherlock knew about the letter he'd received from Harriet, or took his ID without him noticing, but he was too busy thinking to ask.

After "briefing" John, Sherlock didn't stop mulling over the case the entire trip. _What could it be? Child trafficking? Cult practices? Why are children disappearing? And from a foster home of all places! Why won't Liverpool police do anything?_

More and more questions without answers piled high in Sherlock's mind until it clogged his thinking processes; it was time to start deleting.

John Watson didn't worry too much about his silent companion. It was common for him to go silent when he was brainstorming; he even knew Sherlock to go days without breaking his silence. How he managed it? John hadn't a clue.

By the time they reached the train station Sherlock looked more intense than a thriller film.

His expressions were sullen, and he hardly did so much as to blink. "Sherlock?" John waved his hand in front of the detective's face. "We're here. We're at the station, Sherlock."

At the second utterance of his name, Sherlock turned to his concerned companion.

"We're here, Sherlock…. Are you alright?"

Sherlock nodded briefly and silently exited the cab that brought them to the station. John paid the cabman and he kindly helped John with Sherlock's heavy travel case. Sherlock followed John and the cabman in a sort of daze; his movements were instinctive; his mind elsewhere. The helpful cabman heaved the seemingly ten-ton trunk onto a luggage cart and wished John and his companion well. Sherlock could hardly walk straight. He felt dazed, crowded, confused. His mind shoved full of questions, the detective thought he may explode at any moment.

Seemingly hours later, John handed Sherlock his ticket and dragged him towards the train car entrance, where a staff member was verifying tickets and seating arrangements.

The handsome attendant wearing a uniform and some clashing army boots scrutinized the two partners for a few moments while pretending to look at their tickets. "You can go in, Dr. Watson. I'll have to ask your partner, Mr. Holmes, to step aside for a random security check."

Watson startled at this comment. Random security check? There were no security guards to be seen, not to mention any of them performing random checks.

John started to protest the attendant's claims but the man further insisted, "It will only take a few moments, Doctor. Just please, find your seat. Mr. Holmes will be right with you."

John sighed and looked at Sherlock for some sort of a go-ahead. Sherlock nodded an okay to his miffed companion, although he still wasn't entirely aware of the current happenings. He consciously wished that this strange mental fog would lift. John sighed and entered the first class train car obediently, but reluctantly.

The second John Watson was out of sight, the train car attendant looked at Sherlock with an air of forced professionalism. "Follow me, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock knew this wasn't a random security check, but what was it? One of Mycroft's stunts? Ah yes, this had his brother's methods written all over it. The attendant led him to an office door, and motioned for him to enter. Expecting to see his brother Mycroft, Sherlock was surprised to find the office empty. Then things took a turn for the worst. Before the door closed, the young attendant outside powerfully barged the door open and it knocked Sherlock off his feet. Before he had time to react Sherlock's head hit the edge of the office desk. He cried out and writhed in pain on the floor while the man stepped in quietly and shut the door. "Oh bloody hell." He cursed in disappointment. "This was _supposed_ to be easy. You were supposed to go out on the first try. I need to beat you to pulp now." Sherlock could just barely hear the man. It felt like his brain temporarily dislodged when he hit the desk and sloshed back when he slumped to the carpeted floor. His ears rung painfully loud and the assailant's voice sounded more like the muffled noise of the neighbor's telly. Sherlock put his hand up to his temple to feel out the damage. He felt a nasty gash just above his left ear and warm liquid flowing from it; blood.

The (hopefully) fake train station attendant stood over the pale scrawny man with a look of disgust. "I'm sorry to have to do this, mate," he lied. "But you just wouldn't come quietly if I had simply asked. Besides, we'd hate to have you know where we're taking you; confidentiality, you understand." The man took one last look at the handsome detective's face before smashing it in with his heavy boot. Darkness.

John Watson craned his neck, looking for his missing companion. He tapped his foot with anxiety. The train was scheduled to leave any moment and there was still no sign of Sherlock. John took his phone and sent a text: _Train is leaving soon. You coming?_

No response. The "random security check" started to echo in his mind suspiciously; was it all an excuse to separate he and Sherlock?

John _knew_ something wasn't right about that attendant. _He stood too close for comfort and he looked at Sherlock sort of queerly. _At that thought Watson immediately stood up from his seat and headed for the exit. This time a female train attendant stood in his way. "Sir, if you will please return to your seat. We will be leaving any moment now."

Watson felt flustered. "Yes, but my friend, he isn't here yet. He can't miss the train."

The woman was unsympathetic, but pretended anyways. "I'm sorry, but the conductor won't allow any entries or exits this soon before departure."

"Yeah? Well that's too bad. I'm leaving." Watson rudely barged past the woman but it was too late. The train doors slid closed and locked into position, and he could feel the train car begin to move.

"Sir, I must insist that you return to your seat." The attendant must have indicated somehow that she required back up, because a very masculine train attendant now stood next to her defensively. He looked as though he went with the puffer fish method. His torso stuck out three times more than it should, and his shoulders were drawn back dramatically (almost to a comical effect.) John Watson sighed and obeyed the attendant's orders.

_God Sherlock, I hope you haven't got yourself into another mess. _

Unfortunately, despite John's wishes, Sherlock had indeed gotten himself into a mess.

The overpowering smell of mothballs and patchouli stung Sherlock's nostrils. At least they would have, had he been conscious. The assailant contorted and shoved the young detective into a sea trunk and drilled some small air-holes into the lid. He struggled to get the trunk into a storage compartment on a train. An innocent bystander offered to help and proved to be very useful in lifting and loading. The phony in the uniform tipped his hat to the unawares Samaritan and made the final arrangements for Sherlock's unfortunate trip. "Well," He sighed dramatically. "I guess _this_ is what I get for working on a Sunday." Giving the trunk one last look-over, he walked off the train pretty satisfied with himself.

John Watson got a hold of the phone number of the train dispatching company using a simple Google search on his phone. "Yes hello. I have an urgent matter that needs to be addressed." The woman on the other end sounded very professional and John felt like he would be able to get somewhere. He already blew his chances with the staff on the train. "Yes, you see an on-duty investigating officer missed his train, and he simply can't wait for the next one." The woman asked for the ticket ID and John gave her his own ticket ID number, which was close enough.

"The detective's name is a John Watson?" The dispatcher inquired.

John rolled his eyes in exasperation. "No, his name is Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes. His ticket ID should be similar to mine, which is what I gave you. We got separated, you see. I'm on the train, he's not."

The woman kept her prim and proper, professional voice throughout the entire conversation. "A Sherlock Holmes you say?" You could hear her pattering away on her keyboard. "I'm sorry Mr. Watson, there is no record of Mr. Holmes purchasing or holding a ticket with our service."

John startled. "That's impossible. I purchased the ticket for him myself. He even held it in his hand at the station. Your system must be wrong; a glitch, or something?"

The dispatcher was genuinely apologetic. "I am sorry sir, but unless I have proof of Mr. Holmes holding a ticket with our service, there is nothing I can do on this end. It is our rules, you must understand."

Watson did understand the woman's reasoning, but what confused him was how they didn't have record of his reservation. _Could someone have erased it? If so, then why?_

John thanked the woman for her "help" and hung up, discouraged.

The train ride seemed far too long for Watson's liking. He sent Sherlock a hundred and one texts, but he didn't respond. "Oh, Sherlock, what have you gotten yourself into now?" John muttered worriedly.

Far, far, away, in a country we like to call Scotland, Sherlock's unfortunate train ride came to an end. An awaiting group of hired men picked up Sherlock's trunk and hauled it into an awaiting vehicle. As instructed, one of the men fed a gas tube through one of the air holes, in hopes of keeping the detective unconscious for the rest of the ride. A few hours and a ferry ride later, the men drove their delivery to a cliff-side building that looked like it had been abandoned long ago. It was a beautiful view. Lush valley below and thick forest behind, the building was perfect for things like illegal drop-offs. But the men paid no attention to the beautiful view. They only thought about the wealthy sum that was in store for them.

"We're way ahead of schedule, Henry." One man said to the other.

"It makes no difference if the train was early. Let's just get our money and leave." The middle aged man scoffed.

Without entering the building, the Scotsmen dropped the heavy trunk off at the entryway. The middle aged henchman, evidently named Henry, picked up a yellow envelope from the mailbox: their compensation. The moment they had their money, the men sped away in their car, leaving poor Sherlock behind.

It was a few minutes before there was a stirring coming from inside the trunk. Sherlock's eyes snapped open wide. He had no idea where he was. He had no idea why he was contorted in such an intensely painful manner, or why he couldn't budge. The small air holes provided very little light; Sherlock could barely see himself in the darkness. _I must be in some sort of container. Judging by the smell of mothballs, I can only assume I'm in a trunk. Good thing they didn't take my pocket book. I should still have my card handy. _

Sherlock wormed his hand painfully behind his back into his pocket. He dropped his pocket book and blindly flicked it open with two fingers and felt for the plastic of his ID card. Once he found it, he went through the painstaking process of bringing it around his back and to his mouth without dropping it. His elbow hit the trunk wall, and he couldn't possibly get it back around. He decided to forget that idea and just dropped the card. He scrunched up his legs as close to his chest as they would go, and aimed the soles of his feet at the curved lid of the trunk. With all the strength he could muster, he rammed his feet into the lid of the trunk. He felt the old hinges give way a little, and a small crack of daylight seeped into the trunk. He rested for a few moments, before preparing to ram the lid again. The second time didn't seem to move the lid much, but there appeared to be more sunshine in the dark smelly coffin, of sorts. _It must be working, _Sherlock assured himself. Before he could try a third time he heard the sound of a car approaching. He froze for a split second, planning his next move. He quickly deduced that it would be better for them to see him escape and hide somewhere, than to be apprehended and escape later. In sheer desperation he summoned all his strength and smashed his feet into the lid. The heavy trunk lid flung open with such force that the container started to tip with it. Sherlock braced himself as he felt himself become airborne. The trunk, seated at the top of the valley's peak, tipped off the ledge and started bounding into the valley. The Trunk lid immediately swung shut the moment it made impact with the ground. Sherlock, despite the current circumstances, was glad his fingers weren't in the way of the lid when it shut. Sherlock couldn't hear the voices at the top of the hill shouting after him. In fact, he couldn't hear anything. His brain sloshed around in his skull as he tumbled about violently in his descent. By the time the trunk crashed at the bottom and shattered to pieces, Sherlock wasn't aware of it. In fact, he hadn't stayed conscious for most of the ride down. The detective lay disheveled, smeared with blood, and hunched over like a corpse; devoid of any visible signs of life.

John Watson looked at the time on his phone. He had been on hold with Scotland Yard for an hour. After a few more minutes of dawdling around at the Liverpool train station, finally, he heard a man clumsily pick up a phone. "Detective Holt here, how can I be of service?"

John quickly explained his situation to the detective.

"You're saying that Mr. Holmes got left behind at London station and won't answer your texts or calls?"

"Yes." John confirmed curtly.

"I don't see any crime or mystery there, Dr. Watson. Sherlock's sort of a loose cannon. He's probably off investigating part of the case himself."

"It is possible, but I am telling you Holt, there was something not quite right about the train attendant. Sherlock left with him, and never came back."

"Even so, Dr. Watson, Mr. Holmes hasn't been gone long enough for us to qualify him as a missing person. We'll keep our ears and eyes open, but we can't waste our time and resources only to find that we blew Sherlock's cover."

John sighed. He wished things hadn't played out the way they did. Whether or not it was intended, this was the perfect setup to render him completely and utterly useless. He somberly hung up with the detective and sat on a bench, defeated. On his mobile phone he started to make arrangements to head back to London.

The two men who witnessed Sherlock tumbling down the cliff saw everything.

"There's no way have survived a tumble like that, could he?" The shocked man had a thick, rural Scottish accent.

"No. But we should check on him, Percy." The other man suggested.

"You're going alone, Leslie." Percy backed off. "Cliff's too steep. I might fall myself. No sense havin' us both dead."

Leslie rolled his eyes reluctantly. "Alright. You just wait here. I'll only be a few ticks."

Percy stayed on top of the hill watching nervously as Leslie carefully maneuvered the steep descent to where Sherlock lay. It took a lot longer than if he took the route Sherlock did, but perhaps that was for the better. Leslie, once he reached the bottom of the cliff, checked Sherlock's pulse. He didn't feel anything immediately, but before he could tell for sure, a voice from behind startled him.

"Leslie?"

Leslie whirled around. "Uhhh.. yes?"

"What are you doing?"

Leslie moved a few inches and the unexpected visitor could see the unconscious man laying in a heap. "You haven't gotten yourself into trouble again, have you, Leslie?" The elderly man sounded apprehensive.

"No!" The young man countered defensively. "Percy and I saw this guy take a tumble down the cliff. I think he's dead!"

"Is that right?" The old man in Shepherd garb approached the bloodied man. He gently reached to feel his pulse. "Well, unfortunately, he not dead…. Yet. Poor thing is going to bleed to death."

Leslie looked down at his shoes. "So… we can just… leave him here? Since he's dead anyways?"

The shepherd sounded regretful. "Leaving him here? Naw, my conscience wouldn't allow it. We have to try something for this poor fellow. Percy!" The old man bellowed at the coward on top of the steep hill. "Get down here! We need yer help! And bring a blanket, if ye got one!"

Percy reluctantly took an emergency blanket from his trunk and slowly started down the grassy cliff.

Before they were going to move Sherlock, Leslie made sure to pick up the stray ID card that belonged to the detective and subtly shoved it in his pocket.

The moment Percy reached the bottom the old shepherd put them right to work. After a series of profanities, orders, and struggling about with Sherlock's limp body, they finally laid their patient out flat on the blanket to make a crude -but efficient- carrying method.

"Well no sense trying to get up the hill to the car. It'll take too long, and we haven't the time. Let's put 'im in my cart." The shepherd bustled to fetch his donkey cart that was tied not too far away. The stubborn and begrudging donkey trotted along his rushed master. More fumbling, profanities, and ordering ensued but soon they lay Sherlock peacefully on the bottom of the cart. He looked dead. His face pale, his body motionless, and no noticeable breaths, Leslie was certain; he had to be dead. It wasn't the first time he had seen a dead person, but this time seemed different. The man, Sherlock, was so perfect looking; so innocent; robbed of life so soon. Leslie felt guilt and emotion grip his stomach and he had to look away.

The old shepherd, whose name turns out to be Sebastian, diligently goaded the donkey to pull the cart as quickly as possible to the small village of Inverie. In order to help the donkey pull the cart faster, no one in the group rode in the cart with their patient. Percy ran ahead and banged on the doctor's door loudly. The sun had set already, and only a few street lamps were on in the damp night.

"Dr. Langman! Dr. Langman!"

The front room in Doctor Langman's house finally lit up. The door swung open; Dr. Langman's current mood could be sensed just by the way he opened the door.

"What is it, Percy? Can't you tell I was in bed?"

"It's Leslie, Dr. Langman. He's, he's got this friend, you see…"

"You haven't gotten into trouble again now, have you?" The doctor sounded confrontational.

"No! Bloody hell no." Percy was soaked with sweat, and barely coherent. "We saw our friend fall down a cliff and get his head bashed in. We think he's dead, but could you take a look at him? Maybe you can help?"

Dr. Langman tilted his head to the side in consideration for a moment, before giving in. "Alright, but you had better not be up to something, Percy, or I had no part in it!"

"Agreed." Percy was so relieved - and exhausted from running so far - he almost fainted on the spot.

A few minutes later, Sebastian and Leslie arrived at the doctor's home. Yet again, profanities, orders, and struggles broke the night's peaceful silence as the men struggled to get their seemingly dead friend into the doctor's front room.

They tried their best to set Sherlock on the dining room table gently, but his skull still hit the table with a hard _thud_.

The doctor immediately checked his patient's pulse. "He has a pulse; it's weak, but he is still alive."

There was a unison sigh of relief.

"His breathing is erratic at best. He will need assisted ventilations. I'll see what I have in my things."

He quickly rifled through a duffle bag he retrieved from his closet. He pulled out a bag-mask device and handed it to Leslie. "Give him breaths every 10 seconds. Make sure you use firm pressure - but only until you see his chest rise - then you release. Got that?"

Leslie's stomach was in his throat; he had no idea what to do. But he nodded anyways.

The doctor bustled away as fast as he could, cleaning up Sherlock here, stitching him up there. They worked hard into the night to fix up their new friend who stayed unconscious the entire time.

Sebastian had left long ago; he had sheep to get back to, after all.

"He must have gotten quite the hit on the head," Doctor Langman commented in a low tone as he sutured up Sherlock's final laceration. "He hasn't done so much as flinch the whole time."

Leslie's face went red at the doctor's implications. Was he really that convinced they were into "trouble" again? He supposed he hadn't given him much reason to think he hadn't. Leslie had only himself to blame for that.

The doctor surprisingly did not ask the two boys how their "friend" got into such a mess. The patient seemed to have obtained damage that was caused by more than just falling down the valley's cliff, but Dr. Langman didn't ask. He didn't want to get involved, especially if the boys were working with the same gang as last time.

By three o'clock in the morning, Percy, Leslie, and most importantly Dr. Langman, had Sherlock breathing regularly and color was beginning to return to his face. He still hadn't regained consciousness, but Dr. Langman said that was alright. After deeming it safe enough for the patient to be moved, they relocated him to Dr. Langman's bed. He sent the two young men home to rest while he supervised his patient until morning.

Dawn awoke in the horizon and slowly shone her radiant gaze over the rolling Scottish hills and into every window in her sight. Dr. Langman sat asleep in his uncomfortable bedside chair, chin resting on the palm of his hand.

The moment daylight shone through the window and onto Sherlock's closed eyelids he sat straight up in his bed. He didn't make a sound, only observed his surroundings with reasonable amounts of alarm. Sherlock stared blankly at the snoozing doctor to his left, not knowing what to make of anything. A few moments after his own awakening, Sherlock watched as the man in the chair open his eyes groggily.

"Oh, good. You're awake. How do you feel?" The doctor leaned forward to check his patient's skin temperature, but Sherlock leaned away defensively. "It's alright. I'm taking care of you. You took quite a fall last night. You sustained a concussion, three fractured ribs, a broken collarbone, and many nasty bruises. It's amazing that it's nothing life threatening."

Sherlock tried to speak, but his throat was clogged with something thick. He coughed, and felt it slosh into his mouth. Truly disgusted, he quickly spit the goo into his hand. The handful of goo was deep red with a jell-o consistency.

"Ah." The doctor was calm. "That would be some coagulated blood from your fountainous nose, I'm afraid. Here," He handed Sherlock a small basin. "Put it in here…." Sherlock awkwardly placed the goo in the basin, still having no idea where he was, or why he was there. "I've been monitoring your wounds all night. Must have fallen asleep early this morning."

Sherlock blushed, humbled by his vulnerable situation. "Well, I'm sorry to trouble you. It must have been quite a task." He felt the stitches on his forehead. _Very well done. There probably won't be a scar._ There remained an awkward silence for some time in the room, when Sherlock thought to ask. "How did I _get_ here?"

Doctor Langman readily explained the previous night's events, not sparing one gruesome detail. Sherlock listened intently until the story came to an end. Then all at once, he felt confused. "You said my friends _Leslie_ and _Percy_ brought me here? Who are _they_?"

The doctor leaned back casually. "Well they said they were your friends, Mr. Lennon. But judging by those boys' background, I wouldn't necessarily believe them. They've been involved in gangs and some minor crime before, you see."

Sherlock heard the name "Mr. Lennon" in the man's dialogue. Who on earth was he talking to? "Excuse me," Sherlock sounded incredulous. "What did you call me?"

"Oh. Mr. Lennon. Do you prefer John?" The doctor was apologetic.

"Neither. Who told you my name is John?"

The doctor started to sweat suddenly, becoming embarrassed. "Your ID card. Leslie gave it to me." He handed the ID card to Sherlock.

"John Lennon." Sherlock read aloud. The name stuck on his tongue like stale bread. "Age 33, eyes blue, hair brown, height 1.84 meters…" He voice dropped off and became choked for a moment. Sherlock gazed at the card blankly for a long moment. "Life summed up on a card." Tears welled up in his eyes and he covered them with the heels of his hands.

As Sherlock sniffed, the Scottish doctor sat there, flabbergast. "You mean…" His voice got very quiet and his tongue turned into cotton. "You… don't remember _anything_?"

"John Lennon" said nothing. He just shook his head. He could not believe this had happened to him. Wiping his cheeks dry, he looked at Doctor Langman with utter despair and hopelessness.

"Does _no one_ know who I am?"

The doctor leaned forward, apprehensive. "Well, Leslie may know where you came from. He's the one who witnessed your fall down the cliff."

"Oh…" Sherlock sat cross legged on the comfortable bed, looking down at his bare feet.

"I'll ring for him to come visit you. You're not well enough to be up and about yet."

Sherlock again said nothing. He just nodded, not breaking his hollow stare downwards.

He didn't move an inch for a few hours. Dr. Langman came in with a tray of chicken and relish sandwiches, Leslie following behind him. The young man came in with the smell of sheep manure and sweat wafting in with him. Sherlock wrinkled his nose and felt a gag coming on.

"Doc tells me you've lost your memr'y." Leslie's accent and lack of grace disgusted Sherlock, although he wasn't sure why. He had no recollection of how he'd been raised or what he became. For all he knew, he was a shepherd too. _No, that's not possible. My fingernails are well manicured, and my hands have no calluses. _

"My name's Leslie. I'm your best mate."

"Leslie…." The depressed man tasted the name on his tongue; it had no familiar ring to it whatsoever. He sat for a few more moments in complete silence, and Leslie took the liberty to speak again.

"You and I were writin' pals as kids, and after your parents died you wanted to move up here. You had an accident before we made it to town. Banged you up real bad, it did. 'Course I don't have to tell you that. You're probably in lots of pain now, ain't ya?"

Sherlock –or should I say John Lennon- shook his head. "No, your friend there, he um… he um…"

"That'd be Doctor Langman."

"Yes," Sherlock was frustrated with himself to the umpteenth degree. "Dr. Langman must have put me on some heavy pain killers. I feel nothing at all." Sherlock, on a mental side track, noted the extreme difference between their accents. While Leslie's speech was unrefined and wreaked of a limited education, his own sounded pure, well enunciated, and, for lack of better words… English. He couldn't imagine himself finding a simple man like Leslie even remotely interesting; how is it that they could have been pen-pals?

"John…" Sherlock said his supposed name slowly. It had a strange familiar feeling to it, but it still didn't feel like his own. _Maybe that is what genuine amnesia feels like… familiar but not. _

"Sorry about your memory. Too bad, eh? Well, maybe you'll make some new ones. Life's not always exciting here, but we could always use more farm help." Leslie tried to sound positive, but it was only to mask the bleakness of the situation. Sherlock cringed at the idea of farm work. He took a good long look at his perfect, soft hands; it may be the last time they looked that way again.

The rest of the day was a complete blur for Sherlock. Leslie showed Sherlock around the preposterously under-populated town, and introduced him to his acquaintances. Leslie didn't have many friends, just people that knew him. And, considering that the town's occupants were a tad bit under eighty in number, everyone knew everyone. Sherlock paid little to no attention to Leslie's prattling on. He just felt so empty. It was a bright and beautiful Scottish day, but his vision seemed black and white in color. His hearing was alright earlier, but now everything just seemed muffled and distorted. Every instinct told him something was not right, but he could not remember why! The "first day" of his life was starting to pan out as his worst.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open. Where was he? He found himself almost tipping off the chair in surprise. He was sitting at a dinner table. Was it his own dinner table? Who was that man sitting across from him? Oh… Now he looked familiar. It was Doctor Langman. How did he get there?

"Oh. You came to. Good. I was getting concerned." Doctor Langman sounded calm. He held a fork and knife in his hands, pointed expertly and steadily at his steak as a practised surgeon holding his instruments. Sherlock put a hand to his swollen skull; it was so painful his vision blurred.

"Don't- don't touch it." The doctor cautioned. He nimbly made his way from his chair to Sherlock's side. "It is quite common for you to pass out, seeing as you've sustained a concussion. Here, I'll get you an ice pack." Doctor Langman pulled a blue cold compress from the ice box and handed it to Sherlock. Sherlock placed it on his large lump hesitantly; he winced in pain as he applied light pressure. "I…" He started groggily. "I think I need to lie down."

"You haven't yet eaten your dinner." The kind doctor nodded at Sherlock's steak sitting in front of him.

The grease and slight amount of blood seeping from the steak made Sherlock suddenly very inappetent and a little queasy. "I'm not very hungry." Sherlock politely declined as he stood up carefully to find somewhere a bit more comfortable to pass out.

Days passed by, and "John Lennon" never recalled a thing about himself. He suspected everything that his "friend" claimed was simply because Leslie was lonely, and he'd like to think he had at least one friend. The former detective didn't tell the poor boy that, of course. He didn't tell Leslie that his re-utterance of every story and stubborn gusto was what gave him away. Although some days he though he ought to have, he didn't.

It didn't make himself feel any better, either, because he still had no idea who he was or where he came from. Sometimes, Sherlock liked to humor Leslie's stories and imagine a fantasy past. In fact, his imagination was so vivid at times that he even thought he might be recalling an actual memory from his past.

There was no internet access or mobile phone reception in the town of Inverie, and the only way to get anywhere was by ferry. Sherlock hated the ferry so much that he only braved it once. After daring to cross the sea by ferry, he found a library with a computer, to see what he could find about himself. To his dismay, the first 209 pages of results were all about the famous John Lennon, the former Beatles artist. Understandably, he gave up on page 210. No voter registration, phone book, or London Police receptionist had any record of a living John Lennon under the age of fifty. Sherlock returned back to Inverie with dismay and disgust; would he ever find out who he was?

Meanwhile, back in London: John Watson, Sherlock's loyal companion, had done anything but given up. Not one detective, police officer, or security guard in England had gone without a phone call from John Watson. He enlisted the help of Molly, from the morgue, and she helped to cover Scotland and Ireland phone calls. Detective Lestrade would have been a great help, if he hadn't a crippling investigation going on himself. A case that involves nine year old hostages generally precedes a missing person.

As the phone bills racked up, the clues and tips did not. John started literally making calls in his sleep, and Molly hardly ate a thing. They both fell asleep in the sitting room every night with thick phone books in their laps, a laptop to their left, and a phone in their hand. Where on _earth_ could Sherlock have gone?

Life in Inverie drove Sherlock mad; although he really didn't have much to compare it to. The good doctor Langman allowed Sherlock to assist in his physician practice, sparing him from being recruited for dreadful farm work. He earned his keep well. He sterilized surgical tools, kept the house and office tidy, took stenographer notes and asked many thought provoking questions to keep the doctor's wit sharp. The doctor tried to keep Sherlock's mind off of his unremembered past. It always sent him into a deep thinking spell that kept him from talking, eating, and sleeping. But when Sherlock did speculate about his past, Doctor Langman tried to end the conversation on a positive note. It rarely worked, and often Sherlock would lie awake in bed with an empty stomach and an aching heart. On the nineteenth day of his arrival in Inverie, Sherlock went to Leslie's house for a stag party. He got there incredibly early, since he was quite frankly bored out of his brains. Upon his approach of Leslie's cottage, he heard a muffled but very anxious voice coming from the kitchen. He slowly and quietly made his way to the back patio to eavesdrop.

"No, no. I can assure you, he's dead." Leslie spoke into the phone. Sherlock could see Leslie through the glass patio door. He paced around the kitchen, biting his thumb nail nervously and sweat had started to form on his brow. "Yes, yes, he died _after_ he tumbled down the cliff…. Well, then you heard wrong, mate. Sherlock Holmes is _dead_."

Sherlock felt a pang in his stomach so hard it nearly made him double over. He didn't hear the rest of the conversation. All he could hear in his head was the name: Sherlock; Sherlock Holmes. It repeated over and over again in his head and before he realized it, he was whispering it to himself. "Sher-Sherlock. Holmes… That's, that's me. My God…that's my _name_." The muddled up emotions overwhelmed him and he stumbled to the nearby bush to unpleasantly lose his lunch.

Sherlock heard the unlatching of the garden gate. "John?" Leslie called out. "John what are you doing back here?" One look at Sherlock gave Leslie the very clear impression that he did not feel well at all. "You alright? You looked nackered."

"I…." Sherlock tipped uneasily while walking past his friend. "I believe I've fallen ill. I'll ring you later. Sorry I'll miss the party. Give… Give Frederich my congratulations, and my regards." Sherlock thoroughly dazed, staggered through the gate and back to Doctor Langman's home. He said nothing to Doctor Langman as he let himself through the door. At some point he had brushed his teeth, washed his face, and tucked himself into bed, but he didn't even remember it.

It took him some time to work himself up to do it, but Doctor Langman eventually climbed up to the attic to talk to Sherlock about his strange behavior.

"John?" Doctor Langman said quietly. There was no response. His friend merely sat in bed staring blankly at the attic wall. "John." The doctor repeated, this time more adamantly.

"My name is not John." Sherlock spoke without removing his gaze from the wall.

Doctor Langman was a little confused, but he played along. "No? Then what is it?"

"Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes." He said his name with certainty. He knew without a shadow of a doubt that it was his name. _His_ name! It brought joy to Sherlock on the inside, but he still had no other memory of himself. His mind still pounded with adrenaline from the shock he received earlier.

"Sherlock? Well, that's a very nice name. Are you remembering some now?"

Sherlock didn't want to get Leslie in more trouble than he seemed to be in, so he lied "Yes, I am remembering some; still a little foggy though." There was a moment's silence before Sherlock finally looked at Doctor Langman. "Would you… Would you be so kind as to accompany me to the library tomorrow? I'd like to find out more about myself, now that I know my real name."

"Yes," Doctor Langman responded pleasantly. "Yes of course. But tell me; if Sherlock is your real name, why does your ID say John Lennon?"

Sherlock frowned. "I don't know. I guess we'll find out tomorrow."

"John?!" Sherlock cried out into the foggy darkness. "John, I need you! For God's sake John I need you!" The young man began to cry as he fell on his knees in total despair. His dearest friend, John, lay dead on the pier. Sherlock buried his face in the corpse's coat, his tears soaking the dead man's shirt. "John." The man blubbered pathetically as he looked up at his friend's face for the last time.

"John!" Sherlock sat up in his bed with a start. His pulse pounded in his ears; his chest heaving and his sheets sweaty. _It was just a dream._ Sherlock comforted himself. He closed his eyes. There it was again! That face! That face that he didn't recognize but seemed familiar at the same time. In his dream the face was named John.

"Joh- I mean _Sherlock_." Came a voice from the attic ladder. "You alright?" In a few moments the head of a concerned Doctor Langman popped through the open hatch. "You made quite a racket; bad dream?"

Sherlock swung his long legs around to the edge of the bed to face his friend. "Yeah. I think I now know why the name John seemed so familiar. I have –or _had_- a friend, named John. I have his image stuck in my head like he's… standing right in front of me." Without another word, Sherlock reached for a notepad and pencil on his nightstand. He started drawing lightly on the paper, erasing occasionally to correct the errors of his untrained hand. Doctor Langman watched with keen interest as Sherlock sketched out the man he saw in his dream. Sherlock was by no means satisfied with his drawing, but once he had the basic features of the face on paper he showed the doctor.

"Hm…" The doctor mused. "It doesn't look like anyone I know, but he does look rather ordinary. I could have passed him a hundred times in the street without taking notice. You know that _is_ possible; you could have subconsciously taken note of him and projected it into your dream."

Sherlock shook his head, still staring at the sketch. "No. He has a deep significance, I can tell. He has absolutely no facial similarities to me, so he's not related to me biologically. Although, he may be a close friend, or a boyfriend."

Doctor Langman raised an eyebrow; he didn't especially pin Sherlock as the type, but then again he's never looked twice at a single woman since he showed up.

Sherlock rolled his eyes once he realized what Doctor Langman was thinking. "No, I didn't have _that_ kind of dream. I'm merely speculating."

"Well," Doctor Langman patted Sherlock on the knee in a paternal manner. "We shall find out more tomorrow, eh? In the meantime, get some sleep. I know you haven't been doing much of _that_ lately." Sherlock bid his friend good night, and placed the drawing next to his head on the pillow. It gave him a sense of comfort that things were looking up for him. His memory was coming back bit by bit, and that excited him very much. He of course barely slept that night. He couldn't stop thinking about John. His imagination went wild with all the possibilities. It occurred to him once that his dream may have more significance than just the man in it. _What if John really did die?_ He tried to not dwell on that thought.

Sherlock leapt out of bed at precisely 7:15am. He was so excited to find out more about himself that he didn't even feel apprehensive about the ferry.

Doctor Langman, being the trooper he was, put up with Sherlock's impatience at breakfast. A few hours later, Sherlock was sitting at the computer in the library with Doctor Langman standing behind him supportively.

With anxious, shaking hands, Sherlock typed his name into the Google toolbar and clicked "search." Immediately dozens of articles, and websites came up with the words "Sherlock Holmes" highlighted with bold print. Sherlock's eyes widened as he read an article describing Sherlock Holmes as a brilliant detective who solved yet another baffling case.

"A… detective?" Sherlock choked over his own words. He went back to the google page and typed in the word "missing" to go along with his name. Quick as a flash, a Scotland Yard link came up as the top result and it read in all caps "Sherlock Holmes: Missing. £250,000 reward." Sherlock selected the link and gulped hard as a very large photo began loading on the screen. His body shook uncontrollably with nervousness and emotion. The picture finally loaded and Sherlock saw his own image staring back at him like a mirror.

He heard a loud sigh of finality (and relief) from Doctor Langman.

Sherlock scrolled down the page and read the information on his own missing persons case.

_Last seen on July 15__th__, at London train station with a 1.8m heavy built dark haired man in an attendant's uniform. Family is offering a £250,000 reward._

"Well, it looks like you've found yourself there, Sherlock." The Doctor said, wisely keeping his library voice. "You would like to contact them, yes?"

Sherlock hadn't peeled his eyes off the screen for a second. "No. No, I have a better idea." He quickly navigated the internet to find his own address. He scrawled down the words "221 B Baker Street" on a piece of notebook paper, although he knew he was not likely to forget it.

"Dr. Langman" Sherlock held up the piece of paper. "I need to borrow a few pounds; and I need a train."

The Scottish doctor had a big grin on his face. "Shall we go then?"

Sherlock didn't have any belongings to collect at the doctor's house; he had all he needed right with him. They took a cab to the train station and bought a pricey last minute ticket. As the time for departure drew near Sherlock said his goodbyes to Doctor Langman and thanked him for his generosity. The young man shook with excitement as he showed his John Lennon ID to gain approval to cross the Scotland-England border. The Customs officer made a passing Beatles joke as he let Sherlock go through the line.

Stepping off the train and onto the concrete pad of the London Train station made Sherlock's heart stop. Nostalgia and déjà vu hit him like a sledge hammer. He stood stark still with a smile of overwhelming relief while absorbing and welcoming the vague memories coming back to him. Sherlock hailed a cab outside the station and handed the driver the piece of notebook paper that bared his address, along with a generous advance payment.

The ride seemed to take forever, and Sherlock felt tense with anticipation. He felt a tear run down his cheek as he saw his dear Baker Street just ahead. Before allowing the cabman to find a place to park, Sherlock jumped out of the cab and dashed to the building he called home. Without knocking he barged into the building and ran up the stairs in a determined frenzy.

John Watson was standing in his living room talking to Molly on the phone. "Thank you Molly. No I know you need to work too. I'm sorry, I've just been such a mess. No, of course I won't stop the search I… Yes, yes thank you. Bye." He hung up the phone and plopped it carelessly on the long sofa. He looked at Sherlock's chair, and for a second he could almost see him sitting right there, drinking his morning coffee. He heard a stomping up the stairs and assumed it was detective Lestrade come to help with the phone calls again. He casually opened the door in advance and started to flip the phone book open to the place they left off last. The charging footsteps stopped at the open doorway, and John heard a heaving pair of lungs; a man out of breath. He instinctively turned around and he could have sworn that his heart stopped. Standing in front of him was the man for whom he'd been searching for weeks. Sherlock Holmes. John began to faint from the shock, and ended up falling to his knees. Sherlock quickly went to his knees too and held John in a protective embrace. Tears rolled down his cheeks freely, as his friend merely stared rigidly into space, completely and utterly speechless. John stayed that way for some time, kneeling on the floor with Sherlock's arms wrapped around him warmly. The young detective buried his face in John's shoulder, not caring that he was soaking it with his tears of happiness.

A small noice came from John after a few minutes. He cleared his throat to get his voice back. "Sh-Sherlock. You're back."

"Yes. Yes John." Sherlock reveled in saying his friend's name.

"And, you're not hurt? You're alright?"

"Yes. Yes John I'm alright." Sherlock hugged John even tighter. He could finally start to remember some things now that he was home; now that he had his John Watson.

John finally snapped out of his shock and he shoved Sherlock to the ground in frustration. "You bloody idiot! You left me to think you were… Well, I didn't know what you were!" John stood up from the hard wood floor. "Everyone said you were dead and that I should give up looking for you! But I didn't! Bloody hell, Sherlock! I've called every detective and police officer in England! They dredged the Thames for your body!" John's shouts didn't faze Sherlock. He stood up and just watched John as he ranted his frustrations. He was far too happy to be home for any of John's words to take any toll on him whatsoever. It did, however, make Sherlock acknowledge that John was upset and didn't know the circumstances in which he disappeared; that made two of them.

John had tears streaming down his cheeks by the time he was done shouting.

"No explanation, Sherlock? None?"

Sherlock looked intensely into John's eyes. "I'm home." He said quietly. Before Watson could say anything Sherlock pressed his lips to John's fervently. This was not lust, nor was it specifically romantic; this was an expression of deep affection. The long, solid kiss was to show John just how much he had missed him and just how complete he felt being reunited with him. Once John recovered from the initial shock, he began to enjoy the kiss. All of the frustration and overwhelmed feelings melted away. It was just John and Sherlock; there was nothing else in the whole world. Sherlock didn't break the kiss, but he started to breathe through his nose to keep himself from passing out. John started to return the gesture and kissed Sherlock more passionately. Sherlock started to ponder if John took the kiss as more than just an "I missed you" message. He stopped kissing back and John stopped soon after.

"Is…." John's heart began to sink. "Is something wrong, Sherlock?"

"I… I don't know if what I'm feeling is… the same. Do you have romantic feelings for me? Sexual, even?"

John stood, aghast, for a moment. Did Sherlock just play him? Did he just use him for some sick experiment? Regardless of what Sherlock was intending with the kiss, John had the opportunity to tell Sherlock how he really felt; an opportunity that was not likely to come 'round again. "Yes." John's voice was terse and quiet. "Yes Sherlock, I have feelings for you. I've never told you because the only thing I fear more than you dying… Is you _rejecting_ me. Now I don't know what all of _that_ was about but…. If you don't have feelings for me I'd appreciate if you don't mess with my head like that!"

What John said made Sherlock rethink his original feelings. It made him rethink what it felt like to have their lips together like they were just moments ago. He more than liked it. He _loved_ it.

"I'm not certain about my feelings for you," Sherlock began. "In fact, I don't think I've ever been certain of my feelings for _anyone_. But I… I'm willing to give it a try, if you're willing to put up with me."

John looked at Sherlock seriously for a moment. "If you break my heart…" Sherlock was expecting John to give an outlandish threat. "You'll never hear the end of it from Mrs. Hudson."

Sherlock didn't have the foggiest idea who Mrs. Hudson was, but the joke made him smile. Before either of them could ruin the moment, Sherlock embraced John again and kissed him determinedly. John opened his mouth and let Sherlock's clever tongue explore it thoroughly. John made low, sexy moans as Sherlock stroked the roof of his mouth delicately.

After a few minutes of ecstatic kisses, John Watson instinctively placed his hand on Sherlock's crotch. Sherlock's erection bulged prominently from his trousers. John could feel the details of Sherlock's cock through the trousers. His hard shaft was long and rock hard, complete with a cherry shaped head. John felt out every little detail through the fabric, enjoying every moment of this long awaited opportunity. Sherlock was clearly enjoying every moment as well. His loud moans made John's arousal even harder.

"I can see why people enjoy this." Sherlock managed to gasp out in between moans.

John took a break from massaging Sherlock's crotch and knelt down in on the floor in front of his lover. Sherlock bit his lip, he knew what would happen next. He looked up into the ceiling, out of innocence and a small portion of embarrassment; he wasn't ready to watch. John slowly unzipped the detective's tented trousers and freed the aching erection that lay beneath. He took the long cock in his hand and brought his mouth closer.

"J-John." Sherlock quickly interjected.

"Yes Sherlock?" John's hand still gripped Sherlock's manhood.

"I've…. I've never… you know, um… reciprocated sexual actions with… anyone."

John was not surprised, and he was comfortable with that prospect, as long as Sherlock was. "Are you comfortable with that?" John double checked. "You don't mind that I'm your first time?"

"No! No!" Sherlock reassured while petting John's head in a brief, nervous gesture. "I just… Don't know how I'll react, reaching sexual climax, I… The last time… it didn't end so well…" John had never seen Sherlock so flustered and short of words.

John put Sherlock's withering erection back into his trousers and stood up to face his nervous companion. "What happened, Sherlock? Did something happen to you?"

"It's a long story, John, we can talk later."

"Bullocks." John countered. "Tell me. I want to know what I'm getting into here. Spill it."

John was expecting to hear some tragic back story of abuse in the family, but what he heard next was not what he expected at all.

"It was my last year in Elementary school, John. My best friend, he was different, he thought he was gay. Maybe he was, I'm not sure, but whatever the case he had pictures of naked men in his locker. He was a clever lad; he took them down and placed them back up every other day so teachers weren't as likely to find them. One day I found that those pictures aroused me greatly. I had never really experienced arousal, and I was confused. I heard my friend talking about masturbation and I decided to try it, to make my erm…problem go away. So right after school I went into the loo and tried it out. God John I had never felt anything like it. I tried to keep quiet but when I had reached…. You know… I couldn't be quiet any longer and I screamed, John. I screamed so bloody loud it caught attention of a teacher outside. I was so… dazed that I couldn't even answer her when she asked if I was alright. There was a big scene, and…." Sherlock's voice dropped off for a second. "They found me; exhausted, relieved, stained, exposed. I… I never… After that I never…"

Before Sherlock could finish John gave him a tight, comforting hug. The story was definitely not what John was expecting, but he understood his lover's pain. "I'm sorry, Sherlock."

Sherlock didn't feel so bad anymore, now that John understood where his lack of sexual history came from.

"Will you allow me to show you a good time? Despite your past experience? …I can promise you, it will be a lot less embarrassing. In fact, I know you'll like it very much."

Sherlock nodded slowly, still not looking directly at John. He didn't know how he felt about John doing him a sexual favor, but he could tell John _really_ wanted to do it.

John quickly got to work. His nimble fingers unbuttoned his companion's shirt, pressing hot, wet kisses down his chest as he did so. His fingers slid erotically up and down his scrawny man's sides as he found a nipple to suck on. It became hard under his prodding and tugging. Sherlock's erection returned immediately and so did his moaning. John also moaned as Sherlock combed his fingers through John's unkempt hair.

The young doctor sucked hungrily on Sherlock's second nub while he kneaded the rock hard erection in his lover's tight trousers. The whole flat rang of their desirous moans.

John guided Sherlock to the sofa and sat him down. They kissed passionately while John worked quickly to undo Sherlock's ever tightening trousers. John once again held the long erection in his hand and began to massage it lightly. Sherlock was glad he wasn't standing, because this kind of pleasure would have caused his knees to give out. After taking a brief minute to see what Sherlock liked best, John took the silky manhood into his mouth. Sherlock's back arched off the couch in total pleasure.

"Ahhh! John that… Oh, that feels _so_ good."

Within moments, Sherlock had started to tug on John's hair to guide his lover's mouth and down his long cock. Sherlock had to remember to breathe it felt so amazing. John wasn't particularly good at what he was doing, but it had been so long for Sherlock that every single molecule in his being convulsed and just begged for release. John started to pull on Sherlock's balls and it was then that Sherlock knew it was going to be too much.

"Stop, John." Sherlock pulled his lover up to kiss. He could taste himself on John's tongue.

"I want this to last, John. I don't want it to just be some wank-off."

John was thrilled to hear that from Sherlock, but wasn't sure what he had in mind.

Sherlock swiftly switched positions; now he was on top. John groaned in ecstasy and pleasure as Sherlock massaged John's erection through his trousers. Their kisses were filled with passion and lust for the other. John wondered if this was even real. Sherlock copied Watson's motions in unzipping the trousers and freeing his lover's manhood.

He looked at it with curiosity. He had never sucked a man off before; in fact he hadn't even dreamed of it. This whole thing was entirely new to him. John noticed the long hesitation and glanced down at his exposed lap. "You don't need to, Sherlock. I don't have any expectations; I'm fine."

Sherlock thought for second and then looked at John in the eyes decidedly. "No, I want you to feel good too." And with that, Sherlock took John's tip into his warm, moist mouth.

John jerked back violently. "Ah!" He shouted.

Sherlock was bewildered. "Did I do something wrong?"

"No teeth, Sherlock!"

"Oh." Sherlock stated simply before trying again.

John soon relaxed as his cock was covered in the wonderful warmth of Sherlock's mouth. John's cock was by no means bigger than his lover's, so Sherlock could fit all of him in without too much trouble.

The young blonde groaned loudly while Sherlock sucked eagerly. "Oh…Oh God Sherlock."

Sherlock stopped and looked up at John. "Does it feel alright?"

"Alright?! Sherlock that has to be the best feeling I've _ever_ had down there. Ever. You're _amazing_."

Sherlock smiled satisfactorily. "Good." He crawled back up from his kneeling position and lay on top of John to kiss him soundly. John gripped both of their cocks and rubbed them both in unison. Sherlock detached himself for a brief moment to remove their shirts completely. John went right to work sucking and biting Sherlock's erect nipples. Sherlock removed their remaining clothing and started down on John's cock again. John couldn't believe this was happening. His best friend and long time crush was sucking on his cock; and it felt absolutely amazing. Sure, he had a few girlfriends make a half-hearted attempt before, but it didn't even come close to what Sherlock was doing to him. He also noticed that he had never been so aroused in his entire life. No woman had ever made him feel so desirous; so sexy; so full of passion.

"Sherlock, I…. I'm gonna come."

At those words Sherlock stopped sucking on John. He leaned over his lover with a gleam in his eye. "I am glad you're enjoying this, John. I am enjoying myself as well; this is so very… foreign to me, however."

"If you want to stop…" John was still breathless from the pleasure Sherlock gave him. "We can."

"Stop?" Sherlock was smug. "Who said anything about stopping? I was merely going to ask you if you are comfortable with anal sex. If so, I would like some instruction as to how to go about _fucking_ you; I would hate to do it improperly. From what I hear, it is quite painful if you don't do it right."

John's jaw dropped. Did Sherlock really just say that? "I….I um… Are you sure you want to, Sherlock? I mean, it takes some time to… to get ready, and to um, get the… the area… ready to…well… to fuck." John couldn't believe how flustered he felt. He was usually so comfortable with discussing anatomy; he _was_ a doctor after all.

"It takes some time?" Sherlock repeated.

"Yes."

"Well Good. I've got all the time in the world, John." Sherlock reveled in saying his lover's name again. He loved this man. He had no doubt now.

"Oh, I've missed you, Sherlock." John brought Sherlock's lips to his own again for another passionate set of kisses. John stood up and the two naked lovers made their way to the bedroom, not breaking their kiss once. John lay down on Sherlock's bed and the slim brunette lay on top of him. Their aching erections rubbed together erotically as the two men made out on the comfortable bed. Sherlock stopped kissing John for a brief moment while he reached for the bedside table.

"You have lube?" John was surprised. "I thought you had never…"

"I had it just in case I ever got over my fear of masturbating…. Needless to say, I never did."

John frowned slightly at Sherlock's clear disturbance when it came to the idea of achieving another orgasm. He hoped deeply that it would change _very_ soon.

Sherlock opened the bottle of lubricant and went over to his naked companion. "Now, what's next?" He sounded more eager than John had ever heard him (when he wasn't on a case, that is.) John's bashfulness slowly wore away as he told Sherlock the list of things he'd need to do in order for sex not to be uncomfortable. Sherlock nodded and began to obey John's listed instructions, starting with spreading the lube on John's entrance. John tried to force himself not to be nervous; he had never had this happen; never. People in the army had threatened to do bad things to him, but he was too smart to allow himself to be a victim. He always made himself be in the right spot in the right time with the right people; they never had a chance to pounce on him. Now his long-time secret love wanted to fuck him; this was a dream come true.

Sherlock started with one digit, just as Watson said.

John gasped in shock of the sensation. It felt strange and a little uncomfortable, but good at the same time.

"You alright?" Sherlock asked quietly.

"Yeah, I'm fine. You can add another, Sherlock."

Sherlock obeyed and inserted his middle finger along with the other.

John forced himself to relax because he knew it would hurt otherwise. Sherlock pumped John's cock slowly as he slid his fingers in and out of his lover's ass. After a few minutes Sherlock took out his fingers to get his cock ready.

"You're, not going to use a condom?" John sounded worried.

"No." Sherlock was certain. "I want to come inside of you, John."

If John Watson could have possibly gotten any harder, he did just hearing those words.

"I want you to come inside me Sherlock. Fuck me."

"You sure you're ready, John?"

"Yes."

Sherlock positioned himself at John's well lubricated entrance. John breathed deep while Sherlock slipped his aching erection inside of him.

The young sexy man's cock fit perfectly inside of his lover. He sheathed his manhood completely in John's moist, warm ass. He could feel that his tip hit the end of the passage; he was just the right fit.

John's deep breathing and relaxation proved very useful. Sherlock's entrance was hardly painful; it just felt weird.

Sherlock almost climaxed the moment his cock entered his lover. His breath was shaky and he lay perfectly motionless on top of his lover's chest. John wrapped his legs around Sherlock's waist instinctively.

"Oh God John."

"Oh God Sherlock."

The two men hugged; bodies tense and trembling.

"I'm so close John." Sherlock whispered into John's ear.

"Me too." John struggled to speak. "We should, just lay here, for a bit. Give it some time."

"Alright."

Sherlock lay on top of his dearest John, his cock still deep inside. He listened to John's thudding heartbeat; his deep, shaky breaths. This was perfect. He never realized it, but this is what he had wanted ever since he knew John. He wanted John to belong to him; to be _his_ John; _His_ lover.

The two lay there for half an hour, just enjoying the feeling of being so intimately connected. Sherlock was still aroused but his erection had softened some, making it easier for John to adjust. They started to kiss passionately again and John felt Sherlock's cock harden inside of him.

"Mmmph." John moaned lustfully through the kiss.

Sherlock took that as a go-ahead and he began to move his hips back and forth. His movements were uneven at first but he soon picked up a rhythm. John and Sherlock both felt so good they couldn't focus enough to kiss anymore. In fact, Sherlock could barely support his own weight as he stood at the foot of the bed. Their loud moans turned them on even more and Sherlock could tell that he was again close to climaxing.

"I'm close, John."

"Go fast Sherlock, fuck me till you come!" John shouted in sheer ecstasy.

Sherlock listened, and he was so glad he did. His fast movements brought him even more pleasure. John started to scream with pleasure as he spilled his seed all over his chest. Sherlock thrust harder and he could feel his climax approaching even closer. His breath became ragged and he cried out loudly as his orgasm hit him like a freight train. John gripped Sherlock's shoulders while he felt his lover tense up like a board. The brunette's knees gave out and he fell on top of John, completely spent and completely happy.

The two messy lovers said nothing for some time. They caught their breath and waited for most of the floating sensation to wear off.

"Wow," Was all John could say. Sherlock, of course, had a few more words to say.

"John Watson; that was _the_ most exhilarating experience I've ever had in my entire life."

"Told you," John smiled. "Look, I'm going to need to clean up. You do too, remember. I call the shower."

John wriggled out from underneath Sherlock and suddenly felt weird now that Sherlock's cock _wasn't_ inside of him.

Sherlock was still in his post-orgasmic daze. "Can we… Can we do that again? Later?"

John laughed good-naturedly. "Only if you want to," John joked. Judging by Sherlock's epiphany in the area of sex, he could foresee that he wouldn't be as tight as a virgin for long. "No, but seriously Sherlock. We can do this as many times as you desire. I want you to be there happiest and most loved man on earth."

Sherlock thought his heart might explode with happiness. He never thought he would find that person; that special someone whose only desire is to love him.

Sherlock pulled his lover into a passionate, joy filled kiss. John suddenly realized that clean up could wait till later; they were going to fuck.

The End


End file.
